


it takes an ocean not to break.

by orphan_account



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Disordered Eating, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, Eating Disorders, Good Boyfriend Bucky Barnes, Hurt Steve Rogers, M/M, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Avengers, Protective Bucky Barnes, Protective Natasha Romanov, Protective Sam Wilson, Protective Tony Stark, Steve Rogers Angst, Steve Rogers Feels, Steve Rogers Has Issues, Steve Rogers Has PTSD, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Steve Rogers and the 21st Century, Steve Rogers-centric, Tony Stark Has A Heart
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-20
Updated: 2020-03-20
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:47:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23236438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Nobody leaves the hands of HYDRA untouched, not even Captain America.Steve’s time in HYDRA’s hands returns him to Bucky and the Avengers in pieces; they try to put him back together again.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 11
Kudos: 106





	it takes an ocean not to break.

**Author's Note:**

> tw for disordered eating/ptsd/throwing up (not graphic), please read the tags carefully so you’re not taken by surprise.  
> weird canon divergence where bucky is an avenger and ultron/civil war never happened because i say so >:)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve comes home, though it soon becomes apparent that not all of him made it back.

When they get him back, Bucky isn’t sure if the tears on his cheeks are happy.

At 4:39 am, two weeks and three days after Steve’s disappearance off the streets of New York, Stark’s radar pings with several positive matches of activity on the outskirts of Richmond, Virginia. 

Within minutes, the remaining Avengers force is ready to go. Whether they admit it or not, all their gear has been newly polished and restocked, waiting for this day since their supersoldier vanished into thin air.

The tension in the Quinjet is palpable; Bucky can taste it in the air. Across from him, Natasha sits, face blank. Her favorite knife is sheathed in her still hands. Clint, Tony, and Bruce are in the cockpit up front—for once, nobody is speaking. Sam’s wings shuffle quietly, metal rasping as the plates slide past one another. The base’s blueprints in his hands have been shuffled nine times since takeoff.

The battle is quick, but not quick enough for Bucky.

There is red in the edges of his vision, the team felling agents left and right as they storm in. Eventually, the stream of defenders thins, and a SHIELD taskforce arrives to round up the stragglers as they head in. 

The corridors of the facility are long and empty, miles of concrete floors, an unforgiving labyrinth of fluorescent lights and gunmetal walls as far as the eye can see.

(There’s a hard lump of despair lodged in Bucky’s throat. _Fool_ he is, to think that he’d ever be free of HYDRA. _Cut one head off, and two more take its place._ He pushes the thought down.)

They find Steve strapped to a table, and Bucky experiences a dizzying rush of déjà vu.

The room is clinical and white, like a dentist’s office, and Steve is strapped down to the chair. He’s not moving, and Bucky lurches forward, heart pounding in his throat.

“ _Steve_!” he breathes, cupping his face. Steve’s cheeks are cold and hollow, the network of veins under his nearly translucent skin standing out. His eyes are open but empty, staring vacantly up at the ceiling. He doesn’t react to the touch, his head lolling limply to the side.

Bucky’s shaking hand at Steve’s pulse is the only proof of life. There’s a sickly grey tinge in his skin under the fluorescent lights, bloodless lips slightly chapped.

Distantly, he can hear the rest of the Avengers clattering in after him, but he doesn’t turn.

Bucky’s aware that his vision is tunneling, and he maybe hasn’t breathed for a minute. All he can see is Steve’s slack, lifeless face.

  
  


The doctors say that the HYDRA had been starving Steve. His fast metabolism had broken down his body mass as fast as it was able to replenish it, and it’d been a massive shock to lose 17% of his body mass in a week.

Bucky is finally allowed into the hospital room after debrief, barely dodging doctors and nurses as he half-sprints down the corridors.

Steve’s room is quiet and dark, nondescript in its plain furniture and whitewashed walls. The machines around the bed hum and tick quietly, holding vigil over the sleeping supersoldier.

The door shuts behind Bucky with a quiet click. Steve is sleeping, breath fogging the medicated oxygen mask strapped to his face. His blonde hair flops limply away from his forehead, fanned out on the bleach white pillow like a golden halo.

His face looks unusually gaunt, though it’s difficult to tell how much of the effect is the hallway light slanting into the room and how much of it is Steve. (There isn’t a lot of Steve right now, it seems.)

“Hey Stevie.” His voice is rough, an interruption in the still hum. He doesn’t say any more, clothes rustling as he drops down into the fold-up chair by the bed to keep watch for the night.

Bucky’s vigil lasts only until the morning shift of nurses sweeps in to kick him out.

Steve stirs during his next watch, a frown creasing his forehead. His hands twitch, curling and uncurling on the sheets.

Bucky leans forward, nervous. “Steve?”

Steve’s fingers close over his own, squeezing lightly. “B’cky?” Tired blue eyes met his own.

“Yeah, Stevie. I got you.”

“‘kay.” His eyes slide shut again.

—

The rest of the Avengers visit that day, though Steve is always asleep when they come, never waking for more than a few minutes before he’s asleep again, exhausted by the toll his healing factor is taking on his body.

Tony comes first, early in the morning before the regular visitors’ hours. His eyes are hidden behind dark sunglasses, even indoors, shoulders rigid under his suit jacket as he stands just inside the door, putting as much distance as possible between himself and the sleeping supersoldier. He doesn’t say anything before he leaves, the door swishing shut behind him. A tablet full of sci-fi novels and movies arrives for Bucky within an hour, a small sticky note on top with Pepper’s name on it in Tony’s handwriting.

Bruce stops by just as visiting hours open, slipping in and dropping off a small wrapped gift—a book, presumably—and nodding a greeting at Bucky before leaving again.

Clint clatters in, face stormy from debrief. His scowl softens slightly as he enters, dropping down in the empty chair on the other side of the bed. Bucky snatches the cup of hospital coffee out of his hands and drinks a scalding mouthful before the archer wrestles it out of his hands again with an indignant squawk. They sit there until Thor arrives, like an unspoken changing of the guard.

Thor must be accustomed to keeping vigil, Bucky supposes. He’s comfortable even in the dull hum of the room, hands gentle as they smooth down the sheets. Bucky falls asleep listening to him sing some Asgardian prayer, foreign syllables rolling off his tongue.

Natasha slips in after the sun outside the tiny window has set and the hallway light has dimmed. Through slitted eyes, Bucky watches her cross the room on silent feet. She doesn’t reach out, but stands next to Steve’s bed, looking down at his serene face. Waiting. Bucky lets his eyes fall closed. By the time he opens them again, Natasha is gone.

—

Steve rises with the sun; Bucky awakens to a clumsy hand dropping on his head. He’s upright and wide awake immediately, catching Steve’s hands between his own.

For the first time in days, Steve appears fully lucid, azure eyes focused on Bucky’s face, searching.

“Heya Stevie. Thought you’d never wake up.” It’s a feat of strength to make his voice sound normal, but it does nothing to hide the exhaustion and worry he knows is written in his face.

Steve eyebrows are pulling together, a hand reaching up to touch the two-day scruff on Bucky’s chin and trace the circles under his eyes. “‘m okay.”

Reluctantly, Bucky leans over to press the call button for a nurse. “You weren’t, a couple-a days ago.” He can’t keep the catch out of his voice this time. Steve seems to have run out of energy to speak, instead moving his hand to cover Bucky’s over his chest, squeezing lightly.

Their hands stay joined as the nurse comes in, taking Steve’s vitals and running him through a brief questionnaire before leaving again.

The room is quiet again, and Steve shuts his eyes.

“I was scared.” The admission takes even Bucky himself by surprise, but he pushes on. “I thought—I thought maybe they’d gotten their hands on you too. In your head.”

Steve’s eyes flicker open, fingers curling around Bucky’s hand.

“I don’t know if I could live with myself if that happened. I’m not sure if I can live with myself now. I’m sorry, Stevie.” Bucky puts his head down on Steve’s covered hip.

Steve’s free hand moves to card through his hair. “‘s okay,” he murmurs.

Bucky doesn’t have the energy to sit up and argue that _no, it’s_ **not** _okay_. He settles for turning his head and pressing Steve’s knuckles to his lips.

—

The hospital releases Steve a week later with a thick stack of care instructions at Steve’s insistence. Bucky hates it, but Steve’s his own person, and he’s not allowed to make choices for him, though not for lack of trying. Steve signs himself out, refusing the offered wheelchair. Bucky holds his tongue.

The welcome party is small and discreet, mainly because Tony had been called away to a business conference in Dubai that morning. Bucky takes the time to read through the instructions left on the counter—God forbid Steve actually takes care of his health.

It’s difficult to muster a smile for Steve when he returns to the kitchen to get a glass of water. Besides the fading bruises under his eyes and a brittleness beneath the veneer of artificial health, he looks like the same old Steve, but Bucky knows better.

Unlike Bucky’s case, they hadn’t found any video evidence of what the scientists had done to Steve and any written records were hastily scrawled, as if they’d known the Avengers were coming. _Good,_ Bucky thinks, a bit vindictively.

Nothing in the notes they’d scavenged from the base suggested brainwashing, and maybe under different circumstances Bucky might have been happy. He feels sick now, looking down at the words printed on the page.

They’d held Steve in the hospital for so long to stabilize his body. Until the last two days of his stay, Steve had been unable to maintain a state of consciousness for more than a few minutes before dropping off again. For the first three, he’d been in a semi-comatose state, his superpowered body functioning at the bare minimum to keep him alive as the doctors scrambled to beat his metabolism and correct dangerous electrolyte imbalances.

There were specific instructions on a week-long liquid diet to get him used to eating again, then another two weeks of planned meals to prevent refeeding syndrome. Strictly non-strenuous activity only, trying to mitigate Steve’s immense calorie deficit without killing him. 

Steve’s smile fades a bit when he sees the instructions in Bucky’s hands, but he doesn’t mention it.

 _He never wants to bleed on anyone else, he’d rather die than inconvenience_ —

“Hey Stevie.”

Steve tugs on the hem of his shirt. “We’re playing a board game and I need you to beat Nat. Please?” His bottom lip is sticking out now, and Bucky’s weak. The instructions can wait until tomorrow, when he’s assured himself Steve won’t vanish into thin air again.

—

Bucky is reluctant to leave Steve, but he needs to get the first “meal” (essentially, a nutrient-boosted protein shake) ready before Steve wakes up and crashes. Their bed is soft and warm, golden morning light filtering through the curtains and spilling across the sheets. Steve is curled in his arms, back fitted against Bucky’s chest. 

Shuffling into the empty kitchen, he pulls the bag of nutrient powders out of the box in the cabinet, wrinkling his nose at the smell. Beggars can’t be choosers and all, but he’s glad he won’t be the one drinking it. It’s nicer than what HYDRA fed him in his Winter Soldier days, he supposes, though that’s about as much as can be said for it.

Steve is stirring by the time Bucky returns, hair ruffled and rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. For a jarring moment, Bucky sees Steve, small and bony, the early Brooklyn sunrise scattering through the dirty windowpane by their bed. Then Steve frowns in concern, sitting up and reaching for him. 

Bucky catches himself before he reels back, but Steve’s hand halts in the air between them. “Bucky?”

He shoves the nutrient shake into Steve’s hand instead. “Drink up; doctor's orders and all.”

—

Nobody leaves the hands of HYDRA untouched, not even Captain America. Bucky doesn’t need the doctors to warn him that Steve would act differently, have new triggers, more unpredictable behaviors as he adjusts to freedom and ‘civilian’ life, but Steve’s behavior in the past week has become increasingly volatile.

More concerningly, his compliance with the recuperation guidelines that came with his release from the hospital.

“Steve—”

“I’ll drink it later.” Steve offers him a sheepish smile which might’ve fooled anyone but Bucky. “I’m just. I’m still adjusting.”

“The doctors said you should be adjusted by now. Should we see Doctor Cho? I can ask Tony to—”

“No, no, it’s okay.”

“You’re already behind the schedule, you can’t afford to put off any more!” Bucky accidentally snaps, and he instantly regrets it as Steve’s expression shuts down, eyes flicking away.

“‘m not hungry.” Steve mutters, stubbornly turning back to the sketchbook in his lap. There’s a faint tremor in his right hand, and Bucky watches him erase the same line twice before catching his wrist.

“Honey, you’re shaking. That’s the low blood sugar speaking; c’mon, I’ll even make one to drink with you.”

Steve tenses in his grasp. “I’m—I don’t want—” 

Bucky tugs him to his feet, catching and setting the sketchbook down on the living room table as it slides off Steve’s lap.

Steve is sullen and uncharacteristically silent as he sits at the counter, staring unseeingly at the yellow sticky notepad in front of him. Steve’s far enough behind in his feeding schedule that there are several nutrient shakes sitting on the top shelf of their refrigerator from every time he’d promised to drink it later. Ignoring those for the time being, he plucks a box of strawberries out of the fruit drawer, quickly rinsing them and dropping the bowl in front of Steve.

“Try these; let’s give solid food a try before going back to shakes, mh?”

Reluctantly, Steve reaches for one, picking at the shiny seeds on the outside before eating it. He gets through half the bowl before he’s abruptly lurching out of his seat towards the sink, hand clapped over his mouth.

There’s a heavy stone of guilt sitting in Bucky’s gut as Steve coughs and heaves over the sink.

“That’s it, you’re okay baby. I’ll call Doctor Cho and see if we can figure out what’s going on with you.” He runs a hand down Steve’s back, feeling the spine beneath his fingers with a spike of worry. Steve’s lost a lot of weight, the serum burning through even the engineered calorie-dense shakes.

Steve shakes his head, rinsing his mouth with an unsteady hand. “‘s fine. Jus’ need to sleep it off.”

“You don’t _look_ fine. This isn’t good, Stevie.” Gently, he herds Steve out of the kitchen and into their room, tucking him in. The supersoldier follows without complaint, leaning into the arm around his waist. “Bedrest today, punk. I’ll take care of everything.” And it really does say something about how exhausted Steve is that he doesn’t put up a fight. “I’ll be in the next room if you need me.”

**Author's Note:**

> please leave a review to let me know how you feel! they mean the world to me and i love reading your thoughts <3 <3


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